


Venice, or What Happens When The Universe Has A Lazy Day

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coincidences, Greg is a polyglot, Languages, M/M, POV Greg, Restaurants, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 19:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16352744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: ‘Win for everyone, then,’ Greg said, sipping at his wine. ‘You’re not watching...’ he waved at his window, at the steady stream on gondolas drifting down the canal.‘No,’ Mycroft agreed. He turned a little, considering the view. ‘Not precisely my cup of tea, you might say.’‘The gondola?’ Greg asked.Mycroft considered his words. ‘The whole situation, perhaps.’‘Yeah, me either,’ Greg said. Neither seemed eager to follow that line of conversation, and they lapsed into silence.





	Venice, or What Happens When The Universe Has A Lazy Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was written while travelling recently - a trip that began in Venice, funnily enough. We ate in a tiny restaurant exactly as described here, though with a lamentable lack of Mark Gatiss in the corner table. Our coincidence was that our host recommended a restaurant, and in our haste to escape Piazza San Marco (it really can be suffocating), we chose a restaurant in which the wine display was eye-catching...which happened to be the restaurant recommended by our host. Remarkable, really.  
> Translations at the end, though none are essential for understanding the story, and I've left out those in reasonably common usage/extremely similar to English.  
> Oh, and in case you were wondering, the title is a play on Sherlock and Mycroft's belief that coincidences don't occur because the universe is rarely so lazy.

 

Greg had passed many windows with carefully set displays but this caught his eye. He slowed, then stopped, studying the corks and wine bottles paced just so to catch the attention of the passers-by. There was not as much foot traffic here as in the streets directly surrounding St. Mark’s Square; he had deliberately ducked down side streets to escape the stifling crush of people. When he’d escaped the worst of it he stopped, realising he didn’t know where he was. Amusedly he realised it was relief and not panic that filled him at the idea. He had no idea where he was, but he was alone, and that in itself was fine.

Venice had been Linda’s idea. He’s booked it and paid for it - including the constrictive tour she’d insistent on - and barely three months later he’d come home from another brutal day at work to find her gone, divorce papers on the table. She’d labelled all the places he should sign with those little sticky notes. He still hated that particular shade of bright purple.

Once it was all over - and he’d capitulated on most of her demands just to get the whole business over and done with - he’d been left with two tickets to a tour he didn’t want to go on in a city he didn’t want to visit, and the flights booked to boot.

Watching the light hit the window box three stories above him, Greg had to admit the city was pretty, once you got away from the ridiculous number of tourists and their inevitable cameras, the dozens of stalls selling the same hats and t-shirts and watercolours, and the unexpected masses of tourists on tours.

It was actually quite dignified. Old streets meandered in random directions, buildings stories high on both sides, the coolness of their permanent shadow a relief after the bite of the late summer sun. They were narrower even than London’s alleys, enough sometimes that his shoulders brushed the rendered walls before opening up into the surprising small squares off which many building’s doors opened, sometimes with a small bridge over a canal on one side. He’d shaken his head at the abrupt ending of some streets into a canal without so much as a warning, and watched with amusement as the bored looking gondoliers skilfully guided their passengers around the corners.

Right now though, he’d had enough. The tour was only half over - three days really was more time than he needed in Venice anyway, but he was done with being herded around like a sheep. The hotel was booked for another two nights, so he might as well stay in the city. Maybe walk around more of the residential part of the city, get a feel for how people actually lived here, few as they were compared to the tourists.

Greg took a few more moments to sit in this small square, enjoying the relative quiet and space before deciding it was worth trying to find somewhere to eat. He’d deliberately walked away from the sign marked ‘Piazza San Marco’ and after a few turns - and a few more tourists - this restaurant had stopped him.

Hesitating, Greg peered in. It had no waiter standing in the street entreating people to eat; indeed, when he glanced around there were only six tables in the tiny place. Two were occupied, and as he vacillated a waiter stood to greet him.

‘ _Buonasera_ ,’ the waiter greeted him. ‘We have a table, if you are able to conclude in an hour?’

‘Perfect,’ Greg replied. ‘It’s just me, I’ll be quick.’

‘Certainly,’ the man said, showing Greg to a table. The lead glass window looked straight out over a canal; Greg was tempted to sit facing the water, but his policeman instinct won out in the end and he settled himself on the bench seat facing the restaurant. He smiled as the waiter brought him a menu in English - he hadn’t even attempted a half-hearted _‘Grazie,’_ at any point; even his French was terribly rusty.

Before he could open the menu, a voice spoke from the next table. ‘Old habits, Detective Inspector?’

Greg looked up, as startled at being addressed as he was by the title.

To his astonishment, the table to his right was occupied. What he had thought was an empty two person table actually extended into a tiny alcove, allowing seating for four people. The only person there however was Mycroft Holmes, tucked into the corner, now looking at him with an odd expression.

‘Mycroft,’ Greg replied automatically. He stopped, wondering what to say next. _What the hell are you doing here_ was his first reaction, but it was pretty abrupt and he was fairly sure Mycroft would be offended, and rightly so.

While his sluggish brain whirred, Greg glanced over Mycroft, still unable to believe he was sitting here, in Venice. At the same miniscule restaurant as Greg had stumbled upon. What were the odds?

‘Didn’t expect to see you here,’ Greg managed finally. An acceptably polite version of his immediate reaction.

‘Nor I you,’ Mycroft murmured.

 _He looks uncomfortable_. Still dressed the same – a light linen suit instead of the dark wool Greg was accustomed to seeing, but three pieces with a pocket square. No tie, Greg’s brain cried, his eyes dipping to the pale glimpse of skin at his neck. Greg ignored the awareness that curled in his gut – it was automatic. Now to shut down such ideas before they could grow into something more than an instinctual moment of desire.

‘Booked this trip ages ago,’ Greg admitted. ‘Meant to be on a tour, but...’ he shrugged. It sounded pathetic all of a sudden, to say how lonely he’d felt, surrounded by so many couples in the group, people in general since arriving in Venice.

‘You ditched them, then,’ Mycroft said and the colloquial language and wry tone forced a bark of laughter from Greg’s throat.

‘Yeah, something like that,’ he said, grateful for Mycroft’s blunt assessment.

Before Greg could figure out what to say next, an older waiter came over, speaking rapidly to Mycroft in Italian, his arms wide and tone warmly pleased. Greg watched with interest as Mycroft’s face flushed when he replied, obviously trying to correct the waiter, who was having nothing of it.

‘It appears our host has noted our conversation and has directed me to ask if you wish to join me,’ Mycroft said, frowning at the host.

He winked at then both and said, ‘I get a candle for the table. It’s more romantic.’

‘What?’ Greg asked blankly.

Mycroft’s face twisted again. ‘And,’ he explained, ‘Vincenzo believes we make a,’ he sighed resignedly, ‘good looking couple.’

Greg felt his face flame, watching as the waiter set a place and indicated the bench opposite for Greg. Without thinking he slid from his table and took the seat, the blood pounding in his ears louder than most of the exchange between Mycroft and the waiter. The Italian was far too fast for him to understand so he allowed his eyes to follow several gondolas as they passed by the window over Mycroft’s shoulder.

When the waiter finally declared ‘Bellissimo!’ and took their menus, Greg forced his attention back to Mycroft.

‘Sorry,’ he said automatically. ‘I don’t have to stay, if you don’t want.’ The idea of him making Mycroft uncomfortable was unsettling.

‘Please do,’ Mycroft replied. ‘I have only just sat down myself.’

‘I’m guessing you come here a lot?’ Greg asked. ‘I didn’t think you took that much time off.’

‘I don’t,’ Mycroft replied. His mouth twitched as he admitted, ‘Venice is a tourist city. It is romantic and frivolous. Hardly the location for international discussion to take place.’

Greg stared for a moment, watching Mycroft’s careful expression shift as he waited for his words - and the meaning he had not verbalised - to sink in.

‘Which makes it the perfect place, right?’ Greg said, a rush of triumph burning through him at the incline of Mycroft’s head.

‘Indeed,’ Mycroft murmured and the familiar response drew a smile to Greg’s face.

Vincenzo returned with a glass of wine for Greg and a bottle to top up Mycroft’s drink. He smiled at Greg, then directed a stream of Italian at Mycroft. It was the first time Greg had seen Mycroft submit to anyone in such a manner; he wondered what had been said.

‘He will bring us a meal. I hope that is acceptable,’ Mycroft translated.

Greg considered that, and just as he was concluding that there was something Mycroft was not telling him, Vincenzo returned with a candle.

‘Is more romantic,’ he said, winking at Mycroft. Greg watched speechlessly as he bustled back out the door, obviously very pleased with himself.

‘He thinks we’re on a date,’ Greg said.

‘He does,’ Mycroft admitted, the flush that had tipped Greg off earlier deepening.

Considering whether to push that line of conversation, Greg decided to leave it.

‘So you met Vincenzo on one of your many not-business trips?’ Greg asked, sipping at his wine.

‘I met Vincenzo on my first visit to Venice,’ Mycroft explained, his shoulders relaxing a little as Greg steered the conversation away from the awkwardness of their apparent date. ‘His brother runs a restaurant in London of which Sherlock is particularly fond. I ate with Vincenzo at his restaurant, which was excellent, and he was lamenting the lack of canal view. We ended up talking, and before I left we had come to an agreement.’ Mycroft swept his hand around the tiny space. ‘I helped to secure the lease on this space, across the street from his original restaurant and with a perfect canal view.’

‘And in return?’ Greg asked.

‘There is always a table here for me,’ Mycroft said, his voice a little quieter.

Greg considered this for a few moments, and it didn’t take his detective’s brain long to figure it out.

‘Must get lonely, travelling for work,’ he said. ‘Nice to see a friendly face. Someone who has nothing to do with day to day stuff.’

‘Exactly,’ Mycroft agreed, relief in his voice. ‘Vincenzo takes it upon himself to serve me whatever he deems best from his kitchen and wine cellar, and conveniently, our association gives me reason to visit Venice as often as needed.’

‘Win for everyone, then,’ Greg said, sipping at his wine. ‘You’re not watching...’ he waved at his window, at the steady stream on gondolas drifting down the canal.

‘No,’ Mycroft agreed. He turned a little, considering the view. ‘Not precisely my cup of tea, you might say.’

‘The gondola?’ Greg asked.

Mycroft considered his words. ‘The whole situation, perhaps.’

‘Yeah, me either,’ Greg said. Neither seemed eager to follow that line of conversation, and they lapsed into silence.

Several gondolas passed before Vincenzo returned.

‘ _Risotto ai frutti di mare, spaghetti al nero di seppia_ ,’ he said, then beckoned to the boy following him.

‘And a nice little salad,’ he added in English, fitting the plate on their table. ‘ _Buon appetito_ ,’ he said, shooting another wink at Mycroft.

‘So, fish risotto?’ Greg asked. It looked and smelled amazing, and he could feel his mouth watering.

‘Seafood,’ Mycroft corrected. ‘A speciality Angelo offers regularly, of course.’

They busied themselves serving the meal. Greg – never a huge seafood fan – took a tentative bite of risotto. The flavour was salty, deeply savoury, not as fishy as he would have expected, and it exploded on his tongue. The flavour of the seafood was balanced with olive oil and herbs, nothing like the cheese-heavy dish he remembered from the Police Academy canteen.

‘Wow, this is amazing,’ Greg said. ‘God, I’ll never try to make risotto again.’

‘You cook?’ Mycroft asked.

‘A bit,’ Greg admitted. ‘Not as much as I’d like, but I do remember most of what my father taught me.’ He poked at a mussel. ‘Nothing like this, though.’

‘Your father was French?’ Mycroft asked.

‘You mean you don’t know?’ Greg teased.

‘I could find out, of course, if it was relevant,’ Mycroft said evenly. He hesitated before adding, ‘your security clearance alone precludes the need for further examination on my behalf.’

‘Right,’ Greg replied. ‘Yes, both my parents were born in France, though my sister and I were born in London. Spent a fair bit of time there in the holidays, and Mum and Dad spoke French at home.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t use it much now. ‘m probably pretty rusty.’

‘ _Sûrement pas_ ,’ Mycroft said, his accent impeccable.

‘Oh sod off,’ Greg replied, reaching back for his school lessons. ‘ _Siamo in Italia. Dovremmo parlare solo in italiano_.’

Mycroft’s eyes shot up in surprise. ‘You speak Italian very well,’ he said to Greg.

‘I speak Italian very slowly,’ Greg replied with a grin. ‘Had no idea what Vincenzo was talking about before. Way too fast for my old brain to process.’ He sipped at his wine, surprised to find the glass empty. He felt his head spinning a little, but smiled at Mycroft when he filled their glasses. _What the hell_ , he thought. There was something here - something that made the curl in his belly feel more real, and the wine was not hurting at all.

‘You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here, you know,’ Greg said.

Mycroft took a delicate mouthful of spaghetti as his eyes rested on Greg’s face, thinking about his response.

‘I have not,’ Mycroft agreed carefully.

Greg sighed. ‘Christ, you already know why I’m here, don’t you?’

Two gondolas slid past Greg’s gaze before Mycroft answered.

‘I was sorry to hear of the dissolution of your marriage,’ Mycroft said.

‘Yeah,’ Greg muttered. He took a bigger mouthful of wine than he should have. ‘Not sure anyone was surprised, really.’

‘Things had not been good?’ Mycroft asked tentatively.

Greg could feel his hesitation. This question was undisputedly personal. Their conversation so far had been far less so, for all its progression from their London professional exchanges.

‘Not for a long time,’ Greg admitted.

‘And your...she was not inclined to work at it?’

‘No,’ Greg replied tightly. ‘She was inclined to sleep around.’

‘Ah,’ Mycroft said delicately.

‘She wanted me to work on my problem accepting that she was sleeping around. So I guess I was the one that didn’t want to work at it.’

‘From her perspective, perhaps,’ Mycroft began, then stopped. ‘I beg your pardon, it is not my place to comment.’

‘You might as well, everyone else has given me their two pence worth,’ Greg told him. ‘Might be nice to actually have an opinion from someone I like.’

Mycroft stared for a moment before clearing his throat. ‘Very well. To use the common vernacular, I believe you are well shot of her, Gregory.’

The unexpected slang from Mycroft’s refined plate made Greg laugh suddenly. The sadness that had settled over him dropped away as he watched Mycroft flush with pleasure. _Yeah_ , Greg thought, _there’s definitely something there_.

‘Thanks,’ he said now, looking at Mycroft carefully. ‘I always knew you were a smart man.’

‘I hope my sentiment was not too abrupt,’ Mycroft said.

‘A few people have told me the same,’ Greg admitted. ‘Means more from someone I know isn’t family.’

‘Your friends don’t agree?’

‘Haven’t told many people,’ Greg said, fiddling with his fork. ‘Between work and stuff I don’t see mates much as I should.’

 _And there aren’t too many of them anyway_. The words hung unspoken but Greg knew Mycroft understood them.

‘ _Grazie_ ,’ Mycroft said softly. Greg must have looked puzzled because he added, ‘For trusting me with this.’

‘ _Prego_ ,’ Greg murmured automatically. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was trusting Mycroft by telling him what was going on. Of course he trusted the man, but this, like so many details so far this evening, felt different.

Perhaps it was the wine, but Greg found himself asking, ‘Had many dates here, then?’

Mycroft’s confused expression gave Greg a moment to hesitate before he clarified himself. ‘Vincenzo seemed pretty ready to consider this a date.’

‘Vincenzo is an interfering old man,’ Mycroft replied, his eyes over Greg’s shoulder, his tone far softer than has words would suggest. The man himself appeared, kind eyes flicking between Mycroft and Greg until Greg could feel his cheeks heating at the scrutiny.

Neither man spoke, and the silence was filled when Vincenzo started again in rapid Italian, until Mycroft said deliberately slowly, ‘ _Gregory parla italiano, lo sai_.’

The man looked startled at Greg, who said modestly, ‘ _un po_.’

‘ _Mie scuse_ ,’ Vincenzo said, returning immediately to English. ‘Just a little fun, eh? For my friend Mycroft. He is a handsome man, a generous man! He deserves to be happy, no?’

‘ _Non è un problema_ ,’ Greg replied, flicking his eyes to the flushed cheeks of Mycroft. ‘ _Sei un uomo saggio, Vincenzo. Tu dici la verità_.’

The man beamed, clapping both his customers on the shoulder. ‘Ha! Wise but old – old enough to always speak the truth to lovers!’

Heat flushed into Greg, more than he thought was possible, between the wine and the general warmth this conversation was causing. It was his own fault, but he was always more effusive in Italian, and French for that matter.

The colour on his cheeks – matched on Mycroft’s even deeper pink skin – did not go unnoticed. Vincenzo gave a shout of triumph. ‘I knew it! I will bring you dessert. And grappa!’

He and the young waiter bussed their plates, and Greg watched, deliberately keeping his gaze from Mycroft. Despite the presence of their host, the moment felt heavy with the kind of tension he would never have expected to find here, either in Venice or at a meal with Mycroft.

Or both, had the fanciful idea ever crossed his mind.

The moment was over when Vincenzo and the plates finally departed. Greg looked apprehensively over at Mycroft, hoping what he had seen earlier was not a fluke of the light. Surely, Mycroft would not have reacted as he did unless…

‘You speak the truth?’ Mycroft asked. His tone was mild but the intensity in his eyes told Greg the answer was very important.

‘ _He_ does,’ Greg replied, with emphasis on the pronoun.

 _Coward_ , his inner voice taunted him.

‘How so?’ Mycroft asked.

Greg studied him before answering, seeing the flicker of vulnerability and longing in the grey eyes.

‘You are handsome,’ Greg told him, ‘and you deserve to be happy.’

 _Not a coward,_ he thought defiantly.

The words settled between them, waiting for Mycroft’s reply. Greg fiddled nervously with his serviette - the wine glasses were gone. Perhaps two glasses of wine were too much.

As he stared at his fingers, Mycroft’s hand came into view, resting beside his on the table. They were not touching but Greg could feel his presence.

‘Thank you,’ Mycroft said carefully.

‘ _Prego_ ,’ Greg murmured, his fingers running off the edge of the fabric and along the side of Mycroft’s hand, testing the waters.

The reactions were small but electrifying. Greg heard Mycroft’s breath catch, felt his hand twitch, saw his shoulders stiffen slightly at the contact. Greg kept his touch light, giving Mycroft the opportunity to pull away if he wanted to, but the hand below his remained, palm pressing into the clothed table.

When his fingers had trailed along the back of each finger, Greg held his breath, daring to ease his fingertips under Mycroft’s wrist, turning his hand over. The shaky exhalation made his pause; he looked up, taking in Mycroft’s face.

As he looked up, so did Mycroft, and Greg felt his own breathing falter at the expression in those wide grey eyes. He could feel the pulse under his fingers racing; he’d pressed into the delicate skin without realising, and from Mycroft’s look of frightened arousal, he knew it.

With a gentle smile Greg shifted his hand, pressing his own racing pulse point over Mycroft’s fingers. When the fingers flexed, searching for the right spot, he knew Mycroft understood. When Mycroft’s eyebrows rose and his mouth dropped open a little, Greg felt himself grin. He’d figured it out then.

‘Knew you were clever,’ Greg murmured.

To his immense relief Mycroft offered a tentative return smile. His observations hadn’t failed him, then, though Greg wondered how long he’d missed the signs.

Lightening the pressure over Mycroft’s wrist, Greg traced small circles, watching as Mycroft’s face flickered with subtle emotion. When has he become so expressive? Greg wondered. Had I never noticed, or has he never been like this around me before? It was probably the latter, given the circumstances, and with a flood of realisation, Greg appreciated why Mycroft had thanked him for trusting him earlier. It was a gift, being shown this part of someone the rest of the world isn’t privy to.

‘I thought Vincenzo would be back with the dessert by now,’ Greg murmured. His skin was tingling where Mycroft’s touch had relaxed, brushing slowly now across his wrist.

‘I believe he has been and gone and we may not have noticed,’ Mycroft replied. He tilted his head and Greg followed, turning to see the tiny restaurant empty, the door closed. More candles were lit, the lights lowered to an unmistakably romantic level. The table closest to the door held a tray bearing a single serve of what looked to be homemade chocolate torte and an assortment of drinks. A small card rested between the glasses.

Greg grinned, turning back to Mycroft.

‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said. On impulse he raised Mycroft’s wrist, pressing the warm skin to his lips, knowing the expression on his face was somewhere between heated and cheeky. The atmosphere between them coalesced fast and hot and as he watched Mycroft’s pupils dilate, tongue lick his bottom lip before white teeth caught it and bit down hard.

That was the moment Greg knew with certainty they would end up in bed together tonight. It sent a shiver up his spine, and he let it show; Mycroft deserved to see the effect he was having.

A breathless smile and Greg stood, taking a second to steady his balance before taking the five steps towards the table.

Apart from the cake - presented with a single dessert fork, he noticed - were a bottle of grappa, two shot glasses and two glasses of something he couldn’t identify. He picked up the card, reading the words aloud to himself.

_For your enjoyment. Two handsome men who deserve all the happiness of the world. - Vincenzo_

‘He always was a terrible romantic,’ Mycroft murmured from behind Greg. His body was close without touching; Greg could feel his presence. ‘Shall I bring the grappa?’

‘I think you should,’ Greg replied without turning around. He picked up the tray, waiting for Mycroft’s steps back towards their table before turning around, not wanting to drop the tray.

Instead of resuming his seat opposite Greg, Mycroft slid across the bench overlooking the window, settling into the corner beside Greg’s seat. His body was tilted outwards, but only slightly; he could have been simply waiting for a friend.

‘This is alright, I presume?’ he asked, quiet voice slightly hesitant.

 _He doesn’t have any confidence in this_.

‘Perfect,’ Greg murmured, setting the tray onto the middle of the table. Sliding into the bench he made a point of shifting closer than necessary, until his knee and Mycroft’s were pressed together under the table.

Without a word Mycroft picked up the grappa bottle, pouring a measure into each shot glass. His hand shook a little; Greg figured the flush rising on his cheeks had something to do with that.

‘ _Salute_ ,’ Mycroft said, lifting both glasses. Greg took one, his fingertips tingling where they brushed Mycroft’s skin, accepting the cool glass.

‘ _Salute_ ,’ he replied, only breaking Mycroft’s gaze to tip his head back, the liquor burning a path down his throat. The warmth flowed through him and Greg felt the tension between them twist and flare brighter.

They were close now, and without the table between their bodies possibilities seems to be opening up. Greg loved this bit; the anticipation, the crescendo as each fought the urge until some detail tipped them over the edge. He’d never felt it so strongly before, the depth of what was here, the edge of desperation nothing to do with the promise of sexual release - although his trousers were certainly tighter than they had been earlier. This was about acknowledging something he’d repressed for a long time, and slowly, as Mycroft opened up to him, Greg was coming to the thrilling conclusion that he was not the only one allowing something to surface for the first time.

‘How long?’ Greg asked. He wanted to look at Mycroft but the other man’s eyes were turned out the window. Darkness had crept in, and the blackness was punctuated by the slowly moving circles of light around each gondola. As the golden glow slid past, Greg waited for an answer.

‘ _Sempre_ ,’ Mycroft said simply.

Always.

It settled in Greg’s heart, stilling the nervousness he’d felt at asking.

‘ _E io_ ,’ Greg replied. The shared understanding settled Mycroft; Greg could see it in the relaxation of his shoulders, the slight slump of his spine. They were equally invested in this change, equally challenged by the possibilities it threw up. Restless, Greg found himself playing with the fork. Without thinking, he pressed the blade into the torte. It sank into the rich mass, breaking off the point for Greg to scoop up.

‘I’m assuming this is house made?’ Greg asked, waiting until he knew Mycroft was watching to lift it to his mouth.

‘Of course,’ came the reply, as breathless as Greg had hoped. ‘Only the best, Vincenzo says.’

‘He’s a wise man,’ Greg murmured. The chocolate was exploding around his mouth, dark and rich but not too sweet. ‘This is excellent.’

‘It always is,’ Mycroft murmured.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you order dessert,’ Greg said. He took another forkful of cake, suspending it in mid-air as he waited for Mycroft’s answer.

‘I don’t usually indulge,’ Mycroft admitted, eyes locked on the cake before him. ‘But Vincenzo insists and I can’t offend him by refusing.’

Greg smiled at the justification, raising the fork to Mycroft’s mouth, moving with deliberate slowness. He shivered as Mycroft opened his mouth; surely this was a new level of obscenity, watching his lips close over the silver tines.

Before Greg could react, long fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding it steady. Mycroft’s eyes held his as Greg half saw, half felt Mycroft’s teeth scrape along the tines of the fork, chasing last vestiges of chocolate. When the fork finally emerged, Greg swallowed, expecting the grip on his wrist to be released but instead the fork was carefully removed from his fingers – Mycroft’s other hand, presumably - and for a long slow moment, nothing happened. They were close here, faces turned together, and Greg imagined he could feel Mycroft’s breath whisper along the line of his jaw. He could feel his chest expanding and he breathed surprisingly slowly given how fast his heart seemed to be pounding in his chest. They were breathing in unison, their gaze holding their bodies in sync.

And then Mycroft breathed deeply in, changing the balance. He exhaled shakily and several things happened in a cascade Greg was powerless to stop.

Mycroft dropped the fork and it clattered onto the table, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Greg and an instinctive grab at the closest thing, which happened to be Mycroft’s thigh.

Mycroft’s free hand landed on Greg’s, pressing it to the firm muscle beneath.

Greg gasped, eyes fixing on Mycroft’s lips, which had parted in surprise and were disconcertingly and temptingly close.

‘Gregory...please...’

The words were whispered, and the desire in the brought the desperation from earlier crashing back over Greg. He reached for Mycroft, pressing palm over jaw, pulling him the few centimetres closer to allow their mouths to finally, finally meet.

In the split second before, Greg assumed it would be rough and messy, but in the first contact Mycroft melted, dragging Greg along into a kiss deep and slow. Greg chased him as he sagged, pressing them both into the wall.

Mycroft was making little whimpering noises and Greg would bet his pension it was completely unintentional. They were intoxicating, pulling at his scattered concentration even harder. His mind was already a whirl of touch taste smell _Mycroft_ _Mycroft_ _Mycroft_.

Greg’s little finger splayed beneath the line of Mycroft’s collar at the back of his neck, flexing against the tiny hairs that prickled.

 _I wonder what colour his skin is there._ Greg shivered with the possibility of finding out. Soon. Tonight. He groaned a little, Mycroft choosing exactly the right moment to curl his tongue just so, heightening the sound. Christ, Greg had no idea how much experience Mycroft had but it was working, whatever it was.

He could feel Mycroft’s fingers flexing against his shoulder, the whimpering sighs less desperate and more content as their exploration slowed even further, the intimacy deepening as the kiss tapered off. They sat panting into the same air, warm and sweet, the chocolate and grappa swirling through the air between them.

‘Mycroft...’ Greg whispered, not knowing if he was asking or telling or what, just needing to say something. To try and convey how important this was to him. Not just a lonely shag with someone he’d run into in a nice restaurant in Venice.

‘This is...not just...’ he made a noise of frustration, the words escaping him. When Mycroft didn’t reply, a thought occurred to him.

‘ _Sei un tesoro nel mio cuore_.’

The words came far more easily in Italian, to Greg’s relief, and Mycroft’s response was immediate.

‘ _La mia anima mancava di fuoco e luce finché non hai acceso la fiamma,_ ’ Mycroft said, eyes closed, Italian perfect. His voice trembled.

‘And you said Vincenzo was the romantic,’ Greg chided gently.

Mycroft smiled, his eyes opening to meet Greg’s. Once again the desperation was gone, replaced by understanding and a deep contentment Greg saw reflected in Mycroft’s eyes.

‘I’m staying with a dozen other couples in a pretty average hotel,’ Greg said quietly.  ‘Can I assume your place is nicer?’

‘Possibly,’ Mycroft answered with the ghost of a smile. ‘Would you care to find out?’

‘ _Sì, mio caro_ ,’ Greg replied.

**Author's Note:**

> Risotto ai frutti di mare, spaghetti al nero di seppia - seafood risotto and spaghetti with squid ink
> 
> Sûrement pas - Surely not
> 
> Siamo in Italia. Dovremmo parlare solo in italiano - We are in Italy. We should only speak Italian
> 
> Gregory parla italiano, lo sai - Gregory speaks Italian, you know
> 
> Sei un uomo saggio, Vincenzo. Tu dici la verità - You are a wise man, Vincenzo. You speak the truth
> 
> Sei un tesoro nel mio cuore - You are a treasure in my heart
> 
> La mia anima mancava di fuoco e luce finché non hai acceso la fiamma - My soul lacked fire and light until you lit the  
> flame
> 
> Sì, mio caro - Yes, my dear


End file.
